The Beginning Always Looked Like Love

Sometimes I think back to the beginning.
When it was still soft. When it was still safe.
When he loved me—or at least said he did—with everything he had.

We had known each other for years. On and off, never quite letting go.
But this time felt different.
This time, it felt real.

He proposed to me a month in.
Told me I was it. That he had never felt this way before.
That he didn’t want to waste any more time—that he knew.

He said he wasn’t talking to other girls. That he didn’t even look.
He made sure I knew how loyal he was.
How much of a gentleman he was.
How all he ever wanted was to take care of me, love me, build a life with me.

And I believed him.
Because I wanted to believe him.
Because that version of him—the one who held my face and kissed my forehead and looked at me like I was the only woman in the world—that man made me feel safe. Wanted. Chosen.

Now I look back and wonder:
Was it ever real?
Was he trying to convince me—or himself?

Because that version of him disappeared the moment I needed him the most.

But still, sometimes I close my eyes and remember what it felt like—when love was new and untouched, before the lies, before the silence, before the rage.

And I grieve it.
Not just him.
But her.
The girl who believed it.